


Share the Blame

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 02:26:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2092224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wants to tell Sherlock that he’s grateful for this moment of reprieve from the world, here in his home, with the one person in the universe that he knows he can rely on. John would never admit it aloud, but he’s not entirely surprised that it ended up this way, not really, not anymore. He was a divorcé who’d raised another man’s child for three months before the truth came out; he, happy to be back at <i>home</i>, finally back where he belongs, with a man who constantly keeps his world both slightly off-kilter and spinning evenly on its axis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Share the Blame

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Les torts sont partagés](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4285263) by [LeRoyaumeSousLaPluie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeRoyaumeSousLaPluie/pseuds/LeRoyaumeSousLaPluie)



> My thanks to the following:
> 
> [thescienceofobsession](thescienceofobsession.tumblr.com) is a beautiful tropical fish.  
> [astudyinrose](astudyinrose.tumblr.com) is a beautiful, naïve, sophisticated newborn baby.  
> [wearitcounts](wearitcounts.tumblr.com) is beautiful and she is organized.

John makes dinner; it’s nothing fancy, just a pasta primavera with a bottle of decent wine. He thought it might be nice to have a night in after the hectic two weeks they’ve just had. Between dismantling a small-time drug cartel and John wrapping up all the divorce paperwork, they’re both positively knackered and in need of a bit of relaxation.

Turns out separating from your ex-assassin wife takes a lot out of you.

Sherlock would probably loathe to admit that he needs the rest, but it’s true. John can tell by the set of Sherlock’s shoulders that the past days have taken their toll on him and John can’t help it, he wants to treat Sherlock a little, show him a bit of care.

They speak of this and that over their meal, Sherlock’s sock-clad toes knocking into John’s every so often beneath the table. It’s an unspoken agreement that it’s fine, it’s all positively alright and neither one of them shy away from the warm but fleeting contact.

Sherlock is different, now, in the aftermath of all of the adrenaline. He’s open and sleepy and pliant.  
He says nothing of the finalization of John’s divorce but John can tell in the cadence of his voice and the way he says “Thank you” for dinner that he’s treading around the subject instead of meeting it head-on, brashly, like he would usually do.

John wants to tell Sherlock that he’s grateful for this moment of reprieve from the world, here in his home, with the one person in the universe that he knows he can rely on. John would never admit it aloud, but he’s not entirely surprised that it ended up this way, not really, not anymore. He was a divorcé who’d raised another man’s child for three months before the truth came out; he, happy to be back at _home_ , finally back where he belongs, with a man who constantly keeps his world both slightly off-kilter and spinning evenly on its axis.

John would never admit to any of it.

Sherlock mumbles to himself and John lets him, pushing around the last bite of pasta on his plate to scoop up the rest of the sauce. As John chews, Sherlock lifts his eyes and their gaze meets. It’s ridiculous to say that something shifts, that the air charges, but they both _know_ in that moment. Half-formed ideas of affection and lust morph into something nearly tangible and it lights John’s entire body like an ember flickering into flame.

Sherlock takes a breath and smiles at him, slowly, dips his lashes when he looks down at his own half-empty plate and then lifts them once more to reconnect with John’s gaze.

Sliding back in his chair a bit, John puts down his fork, rests the delicate inside of his wrists against the edge of the table and deliberately presses his right foot against Sherlock’s left.

They sit and just look at each other, still and quiet in the kitchen, until Sherlock severs the connection, scraping his chair back against the floor to gather up their dirty dishes. There’s a moment where John’s eyes are drawn to the sweet curve of Sherlock’s arse and he sighs and accepts it, the wave of crashing inevitability that barrels into his chest.

The tap turns on and for awhile the only sound is Sherlock scrubbing at the dishes, rinsing them, tilting them into the drying rack. John uses the reprieve to settle his nerves, down the last of his wine - a quarter of a glass. When he’s finished, he snatches up the remaining wine and sets about helping tidy up.

John brushes past Sherlock, fingers curved along the neck of the bottle, and nestles the near-empty vessel between the milk and a jug of unidentifiable, cloudy liquid. When he turns back, going to pass Sherlock the last piece of cutlery on the table, his bicep brushes Sherlock’s back.

It’s a whisper of a thing, not a caress and not a deliberate press -- but the heat there, the knowledge that it’s Sherlock, warm and alive and happy, sated from dinner, causes him to pause. To his left, John can hear the air rush out of Sherlock’s lungs in a great whoosh of sound, and a butter knife clatters to the floor of the sink.

Slowly, Sherlock pivots, pressing his palms and the back of his fingers to the dishtowel that rests on the counter, drying off. He sighs again, an almost predatory sound, and shifts until he’s facing John, the small of his back resting lightly against the damp worktop behind.

John doesn’t say a thing, but steps into the void that Sherlock has left between his knees, stockinged feet silent against the linoleum. Sherlock leans back a fraction, the heels of his palms settling on the sharp edge of where the counter becomes the cupboard, and glances down at John with a look of calm and such obvious intent that John can’t help it as the right side of his mouth quirks up in wonder and delight.

Their knees rest a breath apart from one another; Sherlock’s position has left him nearly at eye level with John, who shifts so that his hand settles over the warm curve of Sherlock’s hip. It’s a sure touch and Sherlock’s eyes flare momentarily, a brief flash of glinting light and then he leans down, mouth angling over John’s as John tips his mouth up and their lips meet cautiously.

The caution is not born of hesitance, but rather to test how they fit together, how they will best manage this, their first kiss. John grunts softly as he shifts a little closer. Their position is fine, perfect really, and John’s tongue sneaks out and touches Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock hums, his hands finally animating and reaching out to bracket John’s ribs, fingertips eight anchors on John’s body, thumbs brushing back and forth over the fabric of John’s jumper.

Their mouths press and slide, the kiss impeded a bit because they’re both smiling. Sherlock is the one who keeps them in the moment, palm cupping against John’s cheek. His tongue, sure and strong, slicks against John’s, tangles there and for a beautiful moment they move against one another, chasing back and forth between their greedy mouths.

There are teeth, sharp but intent, nibbling against the flesh of John’s bottom lip and John chuckles into Sherlock’s mouth, peeking his eyes open for a glimpse of Sherlock overcome. Ebony eyelashes are fanned over nearly-transparent, paper-thin skin; Sherlock hasn’t slept in nearly thirty-six hours and John can tell, he feels a surge of affection and possessiveness steal over his body. It translates into John stepping closer, their pelvises nearly flush.

John feels beautiful, thinks Sherlock is beautiful, is overwhelmed and relieved that he’s kissing him, translating a fraction of what he feels into action. The vault of his heart opens and warmth blooms in his chest when he hears Sherlock whimper and feels him lick back into his mouth. Oh, oh this is heaven, and John _believes_.

The urgency ebbs, pulling back for quick little dots of kisses before delving back in for longer, sweeter pulls of lips. Time is forgotten and Sherlock shifts his backside to situate himself more comfortably and then they’re together again, chest to hips. John takes control, his left hand coming up to test the curvature of Sherlock’s neck; a curl is caught between his thumb and forefinger and pressed flat until the individual strands grate against the whorls and ridges of his fingerprints.

Sherlock’s fingers separate and follow suit, sliding along the lobe and curve of John’s ear, touching places no lover has ever bothered touch John before: along his hairline, the corner of his eyes. Sherlock maneuvers his fingers between their faces and feels for the place where their mouths meet and John slows the kiss, allows Sherlock to feel how they move together with his hands.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes against his cheek, smearing his mouth on John’s cheekbone. “Oh.”

John decides that he needs to see Sherlock, see Sherlock’s whole face and so he noses his way back until there’s enough distance between them that his eyes can focus. He’s taken Sherlock apart it seems; the color is sweet and pink on his cheeks and the slope of his nose, his mouth has been bitten and kissed to a color that John can’t place but that he thinks may perhaps be the most delightful shade he’s ever seen.

They don’t speak, but John inhales deeply and his mouth gives a little jump. They breathe together, coming back to themselves, processing. The intermittent droplets from the faucet add to the soundtrack of the kitchen, of Baker Street in the evening. Sherlock’s breath and John’s blood thrumming in his ears are loud above it all.

John’s hands come up to Sherlock’s collar, sneaking one button deftly through the hole. John smiles almost shyly, raising one brow in challenge, in offering, in question. Sherlock presses his lips together, opens his mouth briefly and then closes it once more. They stand there while Sherlock makes up his mind and while they do, John’s heart quivers unsteadily, half from adrenaline and half from apprehension.

Like smoke, Sherlock unfurls and floats around John, body turned in the direction of the loo and his own bedroom. The bottom drops out of John’s stomach, and a chilling wave of rejection douses him. John’s frame rights itself, falling into old habits; his spine goes rigid and he throws his shoulders back, his stance decidedly military. His lungs inflate and empty as he sucks in breaths, trying to get himself under control. He convince himself that he can handle this, this spurning of affection; even as it sinks its ragged claws into his throat and climbs its way up. He quickly presses it down with a hard swallow.

But then Sherlock’s fore and middle fingers are hooking around a belt loop and tugging at him, backwards, until John stumbles and turns properly. Sherlock settles on snagging him through another loop and leading him along, down the hallway and into his bedroom. In the doorway, Sherlock regards him quietly once again and tilts his throat up, but it’s another bumbling moment before John realizes that the rest of the buttons are on offer. He’s so relieved that he misread Sherlock that he’s a bit of a mess; the fading adrenaline at having thought he was being rejected fizzles briefly through his veins and then dissipates. 

Sherlock’s gaze rests on the ceiling but he swallows a few times in rapid succession and it helps, knowing that Sherlock is about as nervous and shaky as he is. John takes his time, working Sherlock out of his maroon shirt with care. He’s wearing a vest beneath - it’s been a frigid few weeks - and the fabric is tight against Sherlock’s pectorals, his nipples peaked and straining against it. John rests his thumbs over them and shifts the cotton over the sensitive skin and delights in the shiver it causes to rock through Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock’s long fingers grip John’s forearms and he walks him backwards to the bed. John sits when the back of his knees meet the mattress and Sherlock steps away, walking as though in a trance to shut the door and pull the curtains. The single lamp in the room casts a warm, buttery glow over the linens on the bed.

John watches, transfixed, as Sherlock shifts his hands to bracket his hips while he looks his fill of John. He takes a deep breath in and heaves it out, eyes dropping closed.

John grins at the picture he creates, like he doesn’t know where to begin. He speaks then, the first words since Sherlock offered to clean the dishes, “I’ve wanted to do this for _ages_ , you know.” John aims for casual and misses by a mile.

Another breath leaves Sherlock’s lungs and he shakes his head, smiling ruefully. When he meets John’s gaze, Sherlock’s is soft and open. “Longer.”

“Pardon?”

Sherlock purses his lips, “I’ve want to do this… for much longer than-“

John stands, effectively cutting him off and crosses the room to duck beneath Sherlock’s mouth and kiss him. “S’not a contest.”

Sherlock answers with a grin and tilts their foreheads together. “Right.” When they’re nose to nose Sherlock instructs, “Take off all of your clothes.”

John wants to offer a retort, something snarky that will break the tension, but the only word he manages is “Alright.”

He strips his jumper and vest, standing bare-chested in front of Sherlock, who steps forward and places warm palms just over his pectorals. John inhales deeply, meeting Sherlock’s eyes for a moment before dropping his gaze and divesting himself of his trousers and socks. All of his clothes land in a tidy pile just to their right.

Sherlock brackets John’s hips with large hands, the vee between thumb and forefinger settling just above the elastic of his boxer briefs. The tips of his index fingers dip in and tug until their chests are brushing one another’s. “John,” a harsh breath; Sherlock has his eyes closed and is wearing a sharply pained expression.

John reaches up and presses his nose against Sherlock’s. “Hmm?”

“I don’t want to frighten you.” His mouth twists, a grimace, as though he doesn’t approve of the words he’s spoken.

John snorts and leans back a fraction, cupping Sherlock’s elbows in his hands. “As if you could.”

Sherlock sighs and ducks back in, pressing them together cheek to cheek. “I don’t ever want to be without you.” John feels Sherlock’s jaw shifting against his cheek, can feel as he attempts to restrain the kinetic energy thrumming through himself, the fight or flight response still there but fading.

John takes in the moment, breathes it in and settles his lips in a lingering kiss on Sherlock’s right cheekbone. “Alright, then.”

Sherlock’s mouth flutters into a disbelieving smile and John nudges him towards the bed. “Let’s-“

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, kicking out of his loose pajama bottoms and turning down his bed as he slides in, leaving a large void on the left side. John takes a moment, and looks his fill at the body on the bed.

Sherlock looks confused and somehow, just a shade timid. “What?”

John blows out a surprisingly forceful breath. “Taking it all in. I’m about to get into bed with my best friend.” His lips twist and he takes a step towards the bed. “It’s a bit overwhelming and you’re, Christ, you look, you look…”

Sherlock grins and ducks his face as he blushes at John’s attempt to compliment. “Get in bed. Stop being ridiculous.”

“S’not ridiculous,” John says, climbing in and taking Sherlock’s face between his hands, kissing him briefly. “You look _good_.”

“Of course I do,” Sherlock mutters against John’s mouth.

“You arse,” John returns and smoothes Sherlock out onto his back, running his hands down his sides and then back up.

Sherlock appears to revel in the touch, eyes falling closed and mouth tipping open. He sighs, “You look good too.”

“Just good?” John teases, feels a swell of butterflies take him over as he suddenly becomes hyper-aware that he has Sherlock Holmes beneath him. Sherlock Holmes, his absolute best friend and the greatest person he has ever known, is pleased and wanton and spread out beneath him and totally, completely _his _. His breath kicks out of him and his entire body shivers and he nearly collapses as the weight of the knowledge settles over him.__

__“The very best thing I’ve ever seen,” Sherlock amends, just as John is accepting the headiness of being so starkly, deeply in love._ _

__John laughs, drops onto Sherlock’s chest and rolls to his side, manhandling Sherlock and tucking him along his ribs. “Good,” he chuckles, “good.”_ _

__“The very best,” Sherlock repeats as he sinks his teeth into the meat of John’s shoulder._ _

__John laughs harder and shifts so that they’re gazing at one another. “Stop, you flatter me.”_ _

__Sherlock takes the opportunity to drape himself over John, pressing them pelvis to pelvis, the hardness of their cocks settling against one another. Sherlock’s groan is low and delicious and he hides his face in John’s neck, asks, “Alright?”_ _

__John doesn’t quite know how to answer that question; his heart is hammering like it’s trying to beat its way out of his chest and he’s so overcome that his vision goes the slightest bit blurry. “Yes,” he gasps eventually, and Sherlock chuckles, the vibrations shivering along the skin of his neck. He rolls his hips hard, deliberately against John’s._ _

__“Christ that’s nice,” John says, settling his hands on the muscled curve of Sherlock’s arse and pulling them together._ _

__Sherlock goes with it, presses again and then gasps a clipped little, “Wait!”_ _

__John’s hands fall away, startled, but Sherlock slips off of him and divests himself of his pants. There’s no hesitation or moment of self-consciousness for Sherlock; he is just starkly, beautifully, painfully naked._ _

__John slams his eyes shut and then levers himself up on an elbow and blinks open, looking his fill. “So,” he drawls._ _

__Sherlock laughs, “So.”_ _

__“That’s what you look like starkers,” he mentions, aiming for bored and disinterested._ _

__“Indeed, now, if you’d be so kind as to do me the same courtesy…” Sherlock trails off and paces back to the bed and hooks and index finger into John’s pants, snapping playfully at the elastic band._ _

__“Letch,” John murmurs, “you want to see my cock.”_ _

__“Yes, John, that is rather the point. I’d like to do more, perhaps, than simply _see_ your cock, so if you’d oblige me…” John chuckles heartily at Sherlock’s patient but petulant tone and shimmies out of his pants, his cock settling thick and hard just below his belly button._ _

__Sherlock’s grin is slow and predatory and he maneuvers up onto the bed, straddling John’s knees. He swipes the pad of his right thumb over the head of John’s cock and John sighs. Sherlock’s tongue rests against his lower lip as John allows him to touch his fill, delicate presses and passes. The tips of John’s fingers tickle over the short hairs on Sherlock’s thighs and John fixes his gaze on the sweet, thick line of Sherlock’s prick. He wonders how Sherlock likes to be touched, if he favors being on top or if he wants to be held down._ _

__John wants to know everything and is about to voice this when Sherlock dips down, presses the flat of his tongue against the underside of John’s prick and gives a long, slow, hot lick._ _

__“Oh,” John breathes. “Oh, oh, oh.”_ _

__“Hmmm,” Sherlock hums and mouths at the tip, suckling sloppily while John writhes on the bed, attempting to keep his eyes open and take it all in. It’s a struggle, truly, as Sherlock works his lips along John’s cock, purposefully making a mess and emitting the sweetest little groans and sighs, as though he’s wanted this all along, John’s cock in his mouth._ _

__When he swallows John down, the base of his tongue pressing in and back as he works his throat, John’s mouth parches and he very nearly shouts aloud. It’s a long, hanging moment as Sherlock slicks his way up, teasing John’s cock with flicks of his tongue. Sherlock moves with a casual grace, making obscene little slurping noises that John distantly thinks are more for his own benefit than any issue with finesse._ _

__John succumbs to the beautiful torture, twining his fingers carefully in Sherlock’s curls. It feels like a privilege, being able to touch him like this. There’s a tiny fraction of his brain that’s able to process how fantastic the strands feel sliding against his skin._ _

__Sherlock presses his tongue against the slit once, twice and then pulls up and off, pressing the palm of his hand against John’s prick and stroking up and off. It’s such an affectionate, loving touch and John forces his eyes wide, in awe of the satisfied, greedy look on Sherlock’s face._ _

__“Christ, you’re trying to kill me,” John says hoarsely as Sherlock climbs up his body._ _

__Sherlock smiles down at him, nuzzles his nose over the tip of John’s. “Exactly the opposite.” His gaze flickers down to John’s mouth, but he doesn’t duck in for a kiss. John’s eyes narrow in question and Sherlock’s follow suit. It dawns on John that Sherlock is unsure whether John wishes to be kissed after Sherlock’s had his prick in his mouth and it’s so unusually considerate that John’s heart cracks just a fissure further._ _

__John wraps his hand around Sherlock’s neck and brings their mouths together in a deep and open movement of lips. It’s then that Sherlock’s cock shifts against John’s and they groan into one another, all breath and emotion._ _

__“Can I-“ John begins, and is cut off by another kiss._ _

__John takes that as an affirmative and twists his hand between them; Sherlock maneuvers his body onto his side and John follows suit and reaches for them again. “I just want to…”_ _

__“What?” Sherlock breathes, gaze crystal, pupils open wide in wonder._ _

__“Feel us together,” John finishes and fumbles, wrapping his palm around the both of them. His hand isn’t large enough but the effect is incredible nonetheless. “Ah, hah,” John stutters and grins and Sherlock matches it, overcome and giddy._ _

__It’s a little awkward how they move together, there’s friction but not enough. John’s too wound up, too high on the knowledge that he’ll soon know what Sherlock’s face looks when he’s giving himself over to pleasure. Sherlock kisses what he can reach, John’s shoulder and bicep, which flexes and pistons as he tries to keep hold of their pricks._ _

__“I,” John tries, but can’t manage words; it doesn’t matter because he wants to remember this: the hue of Sherlock’s skin, the color high on his cheeks, what he _smells_ like when he’s aroused. He wants to keep it all, stay here in this moment, lingering on the precipice for the rest of his days. John wants to remain here, where it’s deliciously good and honest, where they’re in harmony._ _

__John thinks briefly of the aftermath, how they will have to suss all of this out, figure out what the hell they’re doing exactly, and it trips up his arousal. Sherlock chooses that moment to duck his head and capture John’s mouth in a kiss, a movement of lips so honest and slow that John allows the worry to slip away._ _

__Later can wait._ _

__“John,” Sherlock says, the word air against John’s cheek and instinctively he tightens his grasp and they’re rutting against one another and the rough, callused plain of John’s hand. It’s a twist of bodies and by all rights should be awkward but it feels brilliant, sweat and semen and saliva all coalescing so they can slide against one another without any trouble._ _

__They both keep their eyes open, staring at one another. The corner of Sherlock’s eyes tighten and John doesn’t have to wonder if this is the precursor to something fantastic because he comes with no warning other than one high, undignified squeak._ _

__John might have laughed at the uncharacteristic noise but the feeling of Sherlock coming apart in his arms, his cock twitching against John’s and his come spreading hot and warm between John’s fingers pushes him to the edge._ _

__He huffs through it, neck gone taut as he comes on Sherlock’s stomach, the tremors rocking through him in sharp little bolts. Sherlock’s arm twines around his waist as he settles down, fingertips resting against the curve of John’s arse._ _

__They’re sticky and sweaty and hot but John allows his forehead to press against Sherlock’s clavicle as he breathes and comes back to himself. A thrill of nerves rushes through him as he wonders what in the world to say to Sherlock now, in the aftermath -- covered in the evidence of John’s affection._ _

__Sherlock’s fingertips skate slowly up his spine until he’s cupping the curve of John’s neck, stroking gently. John has performed the gesture countless times on bedmates but it’s different receiving it, and from Sherlock Holmes, no less. “Hmmm,” he finds himself sighing aloud._ _

__“We’re going to stick to one another,” Sherlock murmurs quietly and John can feel the sound of it rumble against his forehead._ _

__John hums again, pleasant and warm and sated, attempting to do away with the last of his lingering nerves as he hovers on the edge of dozing. Sherlock’s voice tugs him gently back awake._ _

__“John, I have to ask.” His baritone is tinged with slight trepidation, which sets John on edge._ _

__Twisting, he makes enough room between them that he’s able to see the whole of Sherlock’s face. He takes the opportunity to snatch up his discarded pants and wipes their stomachs haphazardly clean. “What’s that?”_ _

__“This, tonight,” his hand slides around and settles warm and heavy on John’s hip. “Couldn’t have all been because I did the dishes.” Sherlock’s eyes flash with mirth and John barks a disbelieving laugh, falls silent and then tumbles into a fit of giggles._ _

__“Oh Jesus, I, I thought,” John coughs and then hums the last of his laughter away and brings his hand to Sherlock’s cheek, thumb sweeping over a cheekbone. “Nevermind what I thought.”_ _

__“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “Nevermind that.”_ _

__“As long as this wasn’t all because I cooked you dinner,” John jests back._ _

__“Please, John, I don’t even particularly enjoy pasta primavera.” Sherlock shimmies over onto his stomach, his arms crossed in front of him. He rests his head on the intersection of his forearms, gazing at John._ _

__John stares up at the ceiling, but darts his eyes to look at Sherlock for a brief flash. “Right, good.”_ _

__Sherlock sighs, his mouth twisting. “This was because…”_ _

__“Because?”_ _

__“It was time, was it not?” Sherlock asks, simply, as though that’s all of it. “Would you like me to make it quite plain?”_ _

__John’s mouth twists into a frown. “Might help.”_ _

__Sherlock grins and closes his eyes, making himself more comfortable against his arms. “It would be alright if you stayed the night, tomorrow night and most nights thereafter. I cannot, of course, give you the assurance of _every_ evening as we won’t be home for some of them, but you get the general idea, don’t you?”_ _

__John grinned at the ceiling and murmured, “You cock. Can’t you just say you like me?”_ _

__“Oh, more than _like_ , surely, John,” Sherlock returns with a serious, lingering gaze and then he smiles and winks and settles back down._ _

__John’s chest fills with warmth and he reaches over to splay his hand on Sherlock’s back, marveling that he’s allowed to do so. Words that would be inappropriate, even presumptuous, at this moment, but seemed to be forced by the swelling of emotion, threaten to pour from him._ _

__John swallows them down, and instead aims for deflection. There is time for sentiment and honesty later, possibly in the light of some afternoon, when John can watch Sherlock’s eyes as he admits all of the tenderness and affection that he’s harbored for the man for so many years._ _

__“And you didn’t finish the dishes, by the way,” John says quietly._ _

__Sherlock peeks an eye open. “And whose fault is that?”_ _

__John smiles and sets his head firmly on the corner of Sherlock’s pillow and closes his own eyes. “We can share the blame.”_ _


End file.
